


Desperation

by Dasha_mte, Martha



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Imported, M/M, POV Outsider, Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 05:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11914236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dasha_mte/pseuds/Dasha_mte, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Martha/pseuds/Martha
Summary: Everyone agreed that if Dr. Zelenka had been the target of a murder attempt, the motive couldn't have been professional; nobody wanted his job.





	Desperation

~Bel, in Service

When the Council announced that an elite defense force was going to be created I was one of the first to attempt the entrance ordeal.

I failed, that first time. But I succeeded on the second try. For three years I sweated and ached and barely slept--and hid my tears--and I graduated with the second class. I am one of the brave, one of the loyal, the best the Genii have to offer. My efforts, my abilities, and my life are committed to the survival of my people and the destruction of the Wraith.

My scores were the highest in my graduating class, and already I have been given a solo mission. It is not an extraordinarily dangerous or difficult mission. In fact, the rest of my squad teased me about it while I donned my disguise and prepared my equipment: "Bel is going to poison an alien scientist. Say, Bel, think you're up to taking on one whole man who won't even know you're there?" But mostly, that's envy. None of them has been trusted with a solo mission at all, and this is a secret mission. There is no greater honor. Besides, they know that if I'm caught there will be enough danger and sacrifice to please anyone.

As I sit on the hill beside the pretty girl who is our local eyes and ears I look completely harmless even as my blood rushes with the fire of combat. I am more nervous than I thought. Also--

And this takes me by surprise--

I'm a little embarrassed.

More than a little embarrassed. For all its danger and intrigue, the object of this mission is not so inspiring as the work itself. I am to poison one scientist. A scholar, not a soldier. Even more distressing, he--like us--is fighting the Wraith. He has dealt them great blows. Yes, it is true, he has also dealt us great blows. He has impeded us from vital objectives. He is partially responsible for the premature culling that endangers every human home in the galaxy. While our relations with the interlopers who have squatted on Atlantis have recently improved from open hostility to cordial dislike, it is only necessity that brings us to this, not affection or justice.

But to so craftily humiliate and murder Rodney McKay just seems like petty spite. The act cannot be traced back to us, so this is not an oblique way to declare open war. It will not help us fight the Wraith. It will not make the Earthers go home. It will not advance our technology.

My commander says it will deprive the Earthers of their greatest advantage, which is a very practical goal. The victim and the manner of his death will erode their morale. He says McKay is irreplaceable, and the lack of his help may make them more humble in their dealings with others. Perhaps they will come to us more often, and offer help more generously.

My commander also says it will suitably punish them for the difficulties they have caused us. And that seems unworthy. I did not offer up my life while I live it and my death when it comes in order to punish anyone. I want to fight Wraith. I want to save my world.

I watch the ruins, pretending I am flirting with the pretty girl. One of their soldiers comes out, walks behind a tree to piss. Our spy says the Earthers have been there for three days. They trade for local food, and pay well. One of their mind-scientists is interviewing everyone who will talk to her about petty things like commerce and child rearing. Another scientist is stealing the leaves from the trees. What great power these people must have, to find use for such useless things.

The locals go in and out. My spy says that they watch the strangers work within the ruins. The curiosity is permitted. The guards keep them out of the way, but they are cordial and lenient. Gaining entrance will not be a problem.

No one here understands what the strangers are doing, but from the description, they have found some technology of Ancestors they are examining. Perhaps, when they have made sense of it, they will steal it. It's a shame; the poison they gave me for McKay will not work quickly enough to keep his hands from pillaging these treasures.

Following a group of curious, local children, I enter the ruins casually. Part of a stone floor--weathered and solid looking--has lifted easily away to reveal a broad passage down. There are guards--the interlopers are cautious people--but the Genii have had several generations to perfect the illusion of being harmless and bland.

The ramp down leads to a broad, open room. There is furniture shoved to one side, including a table laid out with alien and local foods. Portions half-eaten and discarded wrappings litter one side of the table. They aren't being tidy.

I watch them work. The guards are few and bored. The scientists are many and loud. They yell for volume and in anger. Whatever this place was--and the equipment means no more to me than pictures in the clouds--it is not working correctly. One wall lights up, flickers, goes out. I wonder if it is dangerous.

What I am really watching, though, is what they eat and drink. Each of the interlopers has his own cup. At home, among our own family or colleagues or the members of our own squad, we would share a cup or dipper. These people are not only formal with strangers; they keep a prim distance from each other. That will, however, make my work much easier. Ladeth is best drunk, although I have several Ladeth-tainted foods with me. Some has been mixed with a sweet sauce, other used to boil grain. The aliens are eating local food. They wouldn't notice if I just added something to one of the dishes their hosts have supplied.

It would be wasteful, though, to have to poison many in order to reach just one. The plan would not play out as my superiors desire. When the behavioral changes come it would be easier to see patterns if several of the people were affected. If it is only one, the cause might never be isolated. If we are lucky, McKay may be thoroughly discredited rather than only killed. Individual cups will make it easy to poison him, and him alone.

~Lt. Colonel John Shepard, United States Air Force

The cool object de tech today is some kind of long range sensor. It's not as snazzy as the one we have at home at the city. This one has a shorter range and it isn't as precise. It is also based on simpler technology, potentially making it easier to retro-engineer. And this one, unlike the one at home, is already broken, so in tinkering around with it, Rodney isn't risking accidentally crashing a vital system. And if he can get it to work, then these pleasant local people and their quaint--well, all right, really ugly--little round houses will have their own working Wraith-detector. They could bury the gate--or move it, say, half a dart-length from a cliff face--and rely on the nice machine to tell them when to run and hide.

Of course, to make that sustainable, we'd also have to fix the cloaking device that's supposed to protect the machine. Otherwise, the Wraith can just come back once and blast the sensor to pieces and dig up the gate.

Right now, it's not a guarantee that any of this equipment can be made to work again. We've been here three days, and most of that has been spent just locating bits and pieces and seeing how they are supposed to fit together. Radek has a blue box in the corner--he can't find it in any of the schematics and he can't tell what it's supposed to do. It has got power, when nothing else does, and that frustrated the hell out of him until he just hung a sign on it saying "Apparently it works by magic" and decided to come back to it later. He moved on to what I think they are calling the "blunt matter resonance chamber" early this morning, and he was the one who just found the little bit of plastic and ceramic that has brought everybody to a halt to watch the project director.

Rodney is putting on quite a show. For the last couple of months or so, he's been--well not polite, but subdued. Restrained. He's refrained from yelling at the staff, at least in public, since he blew up the planet Duranda and most of its solar system. Apparently, though, he thinks the little object in his hand is a safe target for his rage, which is currently--

(I check: "Stupid, arrogant, short sighted, impractical bastards!")

\--in full swing.

"Would you just look at this! Can you believe this?" He is holding up a small round globe about the size of two fists put together. Some funny red and blue bits protrude from the sides, but the problem is there are several irregular holes in the outer surface.

"I hate the ancients! They can transmit matter across galaxies and they can't build a facility that's safe from rodents."

Rodney's staff stay out of his way when he's pissed. He is equally contemptuous of everyone, and he doesn't hold grudges, but just because his tantrums aren't personal doesn't mean they are fun. The only person who usually argues with him is Zelenka, and he only risks it when it's important.

Rodney's not my boss, though, so I can afford to admire his blistering rages for the art they are. I can also afford to yank his chain whenever I feel like it. I raise one finger. "Er, Dr. McKay," I have to speak loudly to get him to even hear, "Not rodents. No mammals here except the humans, the dogs, and the sheep-things. I think that was a kind of small lizard: you know, short body, long legs, pug nose? One was in Cadman's tent this morning."

McKay looks at me with gratifying astonishment and fury. "Rodents, lizards! Who gives a flying fuck about biology? Like it's even a science. Something ate--ate--one of the resonators. Why would anything--what is this anyway, glass? No, it would have to be some kind of crystal, wouldn't it?" Rodney's volume starts to drop. "Why would anything eat something like this?"

"Well, I don't know," I drawl. "You'd have to ask the biologist. We have one outside."

He's not listening, though. He's got some idea that is crowding out his fury. "Radek, could we maybe substitute something from the pier array for this?"

"I think we can do without it," Zelenka says. "We have four more nodes that aren't broken."

"We'll lose range!"

Zelenka shrugs. "Yeah? So? Even without it, we have light years of range. First we'll get it working, then we'll worry about range."

"Bypassing this node will be complicated...."

And they're off again. I can tell there is going to be a long stretch of gibberish. This isn't the entertaining part. The entertaining part won't start again until Rodney starts chewing out his staff in equations or he and Zelenka start shouting at each other about two different topics simultaneously. Actually, most of the time watching the engineering advance team work is really boring. They mutter. They scribble. They take things apart and dust them very carefully with tiny vacuum cleaners. The boring stretches last for hours.

I head up the ramp to take a look around up top. The planetary rotation here runs less than fifteen hours. That means just over seven hours of daylight at a time. We have been trying to stay on Atlantean time, but I have to say the swift comings of morning and evening feel really weird.

I do a broad circuit of the parameter and head back. I see at once I've timed things badly. McKay and Zelenka have already started the next round. They are staring at a console with matched expressions of hostility that means they are going to explode at something--possibly each other--again any minute.

"Very inefficient," Zelenka sounds as disappointed as he does irritated.

"No, it's not," Rodney growls absently.

"What do you mean? Look at power going in? Look at the power the field generator is getting. Why would they bother to install something this shoddy?"

"It's not shoddy, it's just ten thousand years old. It's leaking."

Zelenka turns to one of the lap tops set up along the top of the control board. "Hardly worth mentioning. The monitors--" So far, this is disappointing. They are barely speaking English. When they start yelling, I'll have even less clue than usual what it is about. I look at Ronon, who looks half-asleep.

"Are in base ten. You're thinking in base two." I wince on Zelenka's behalf.

Zelenka pauses. "That is one hell of a leak."

Rodney throws back his head and bellows without looking at anyone, "Shut it down, people, we've got to replace the power conduit. It probably had lizards chewing on it."

"What are we going to replace it with?" Zelenka asks.

"Oh, I don't know," Rodney says scathingly, "how about that five hundred meters of insulated seven-micron cord we brought with us? That work for you?"

Zelenka thinks about it. "Okay, yes," he says.

"Vasquez, Sato, just replace everything, that way you don't have to do any splicing along the way." He pauses, glancing in my direction. "Colonel! You have got to see this. Well, not see it. It isn't visible. I found out why the power was still working when nothing else was."

"Another ZPM?" I ask hopefully.

He brushes past me on the way to the snack table, saying over his shoulder, "Don't I wish. No, ruled that out in the first five minutes." He begins to shake the thermoses methodically, searching for some remnant of coffee. "Actually, this isn't even something we can use in Atlantis. But it will make a very nice present to send home. Clean, cheap, energy available anywhere--well, not if you are in a city floating several hundred feet above the ocean floor."

"Get to the point?"

"Right." He finally finds a thermos that still has something in it. "It's geothermal. Absolutely elegant. And the system is simple enough to need practically no maintenance."

"That's Zelenka's coffee," I point out, mainly so I can needle him.

"Yeah, well he drank mine this morning. Mind you, I'm not talking naqada generator here. Each unit puts out less than, oh, say, a nuclear facility at home. But unlike naqada and plutonium, it's a cheap, renewable resource that's available to everyone and it doesn't produce a hazardous waste product. This one might actually be a Nobel Peace Prize." His eyes say he is teasing me. "Have you tried the purple bread? It tastes kind of like carrot cake."

I brush my hands off on my pants, and snag a piece of the bread the locals have been plying us with, trying to convince us to trade. "You don't eat carrot cake," I say.

"The stuff we get on Atlantis is made with orange peel."

I feel like I should have known that. "Oh. So how many days are we looking at here?"

"Three? Four at the outside."

"And we'll leave these people with a working Wraith detector?"

"Absolutely."

"You're sure."

He shoots me a dirty look. "Ninety percent. Look, call your meeting with the locals. Tell them they're going to have to make some decisions soon. Build shelters. Go way underground. Something. Oh, what the hell--" He was staring past my head, and when I turned I saw one of the control panels smoking.

"Is it supposed to do that?" I drawl, but Rodney is already off and running. "This won't put you behind schedule, will it?"

"Perot, you idiot, what did you do?" On behalf of the poor tech who is simultaneously trying to cringe and put out the fire, I wince. "Oh, would you look at this? No, not like that!" He snatches the Ancient fire extinguisher from Zelenka's hand and uses it himself. "What is the matter with you people?"

Zelenka, as always, is the only one willing to argue with him, even though Rodney doesn't actually mind being argued with. Since Rodney is almost always right--or at least closer to right--most of them don't see a point. "It wasn't his fault, Rodney. That *primin teneo* is ten thousand years old! It might have been holding a charge for most of that time--"

"Excuse me." Rodney's voice is ice. This withering derision is the second reason most people don't argue with him. "Since when do I need *you* second guessing me?" It's the "you" that does it. It isn't even irritation, but contempt and dismissal. Even as he finishes speaking, Rodney turns his back to Zelenka and takes a breath to continue his attack on the unlucky Perot.

"You," Zelenka sings, his accent nearly obliterating the word, "are unbelievable. There is absolutely no end to your arrogance. You have the best staff in two galaxies, and you treat us like-like floor washers!"

"It's hardly my fault the best Stargate Command could find are a group of thick-brained, plodding dunderheads!"

"You would have killed yourself five times if I had not stopped you. And that is just me, over just the last year!"

"Oh, you've been counting?"

"Yes! I have been counting. You have gotten reckless! Careless! You never listen! And when things don't go your way, you find one of us to blame--"

"That is not true!"

They are both shouting at once, and I can't follow the storm of invective. Some of it is in Czech anyway, which Zelenka only does to piss Rodney off. Usually, he means to wind him up in a friendly way. Mostly. Not today. Today, they don't look playful or even frustrated or worried, they just look mad. The engineering team has stopped work to stare. My marines are staring, too, and so are the handful of locals who have been hanging around the edges to watch.

"Dr. McKay," I say loudly. I have to say it three times before he hears me.

"What is it, Colonel? I'm a little busy."

"Can I have a word with you?"

"What, now?"

"Yes, Doctor. Now."

He follows me over to the foot of the ramp that leads back up to the surface. "What do you want?"

And I realize, looking at the impatience and bewilderment on his face, that while it was obviously imperative that we bring the best possible analytical mind along to be in charge of studying Ancient technology, our admittedly brilliant engineer and astrophysicist can be a disaster as an administrator.

Clearly, there is no talking to him. He hasn't noticed how out of line he is. There won't be any explaining it to him, not now. Well. He isn't my department, and I'm not his keeper.

I am his friend, though. He doesn't have many friends, and he's about to seriously alienate one of them. "I thought maybe you could use a moment to calm down." He looks at me blankly. "You know. Before you say something you might have to apologize for."

That got him. Finally. I guess I still have enough credit left over from his last apology to embarrass him a little. "I can handle my staff," he says shortly. But he looks slightly uncertain.

"Fine," I say. "Whatever." I don't need to argue. By making him stop and think, I accomplished the immediate goal. I watch him stomp back to the control panel and begin ripping out ruined parts. He's still clearly in a foul mood, but he's not currently abusive. Wondering if I've done him a favor--and a little surprised to discover how much I actually care--I head over to the food table to try the purple carrot cake.

~Elizabeth Weir, Director, Atlantis Project

In front of me is Rodney's report on the Uit deep space sensor array. As always, it's written in a language that sort of--but not completely--resembles English. There are lots of diagrams and photos. Zelenka's report is much more readable, despite English being his second language. The bottom line of both reports is, the sensor is now working at about forty percent capacity. It isn't clear how useful it will be to the Uiti at this time, but we do have a complete schematic to send back to Earth.

John says the Uiti are nice people, the functioning sensor has been very good for morale, we should never, ever drive a jumper through that stargate, and he recommends trading for food.

Under those reports is a thin black book that I have read twice now and do not find reassuring. The Daedalus entered orbit last night and Hermiod requested a tour of the city. He's coming down. In three hours. And there is no point in scheduling Rodney as the tour guide because nothing we say is going to impress an Asgard. And I won't bother worrying about the very nice dinner I have ordered up because Hermiod will politely decline to eat it. I won't bother to get any particular part of the city 'ready' because whatever I guess he will want to see, he will want to see something else.

The thin, black book contains everything we know about Asgard culture and diplomatic procedure. We don't know very much. Our understanding of their biology is sketchy at best. Their social organization is even fuzzier. We know that they are very old. Not as a society, but as individuals. As one body dies, the mind is transferred to a new one just like it. They are intelligent, yes, but their real advantage is experience. You try impressing somebody a couple thousand years old.

We don't know what they do for fun or if they fall in love or how much of in individual identity each separate Asgard has. They have such lofty standards that they are nearly impossible to please, and such low expectations for us that they are nearly impossible to disappoint.

Restless, nervous, I leave my office and wander down to the gateroom--

And stop in surprise at the sight of five, no six, of the main control panels half disassembled and spread out on the floor. Sato and Martins, on duty, are standing nervously in the corner.

One of the disassembled panels is the main gate control. The environmental monitoring station. The long range sensor array. One of the internal sensor systems.

Amid an alarming number of bits of things, which are, at least, laid out in very tidy rows sits Dr. Zelenka, holding a tiny crystal in a pair of tweezers. I clear my throat. "What happened here?"

Dr. Zelenka looks up at me. "Happened?" he asks in apparent confusion.

"What broke?" I am beginning to feel irritated. Something has taken out almost half our core systems. Some of these don't have functional back-ups. "Why didn't you call me?"

"Nothing's broken." He shifts his eyes back to his tiny crystal.

"Well--?" I spread my arms, indicating the several yards of floor-space taken up by inscrutable alien machinery.

"I was curious." He glances around, apparently surprised by the scope of the mess. "They called this a *churia*. It holds more data than ... oh, the libraries of Harvard and Oxford together. Plus some." He waves the tweezers in the air. "Sensitive to heat though."

I look at the mess and think about the environmental monitoring system that is currently off-line. I look at the mess and think of Hermiod. I want to be angry, but--

Surely, I don't know enough about this situation to risk being angry yet. Whatever is going on ... I mean, this is Radek Zelenka. He's not usually careless. Or messy. Or mistaken in his priorities. He's not flashy, but he's reliable. "Clean this up," I say firmly. "Put everything back. Make sure it works."

"Oh. Yes. Now?"

"Yes. Now." This is very strange. I look at Sato and Martins, who just shake their heads. "Make sure everything works," I say to them. "If you have any doubts about--anything, call Rodney."

 

~Teyla Emmagan

At home I used to go hunting every few days. Twice a year, when the padres fruits ripened, we climbed the rocky hills to collect and dry them. Each way, it was a six-day hike over difficult terrain. We walked everywhere we went, and, with one thing and another, we often spent all day going here and there and back again.

On the city Atlantis, we hardly ever walk. The places we regularly use are all quite near one another. We trade for our food, or import it from Earth. We take puddlejumpers to visit the mainland. Even within the city--though it is no great distance--there are small rooms that can carry a person from one section to another in the blink of an eye. Only when we are off-world do we walk, and not even always then.

On some days that we are home I run with Colonel Sheppard in the mornings. We do not run to anywhere in particular. We are not in a hurry or fleeing anything. I understand running for the joy of it. I am constantly amused by the idea of needing to, for 'exercise.'

It is very pleasant, though. The air in the morning is usually cool and pleasant, so we run along the decks outside. The sun and water are very beautiful. Sometimes small plants bloom on the surface, and they smell very sweet.

Colonel Sheppard is also, in his way, sweet. His company is pleasant, his form beautiful to watch. Sometimes we race. He is not a bad runner, and I never beat him by more than a few steps. It would show contempt to outrun him as far as I could, and though he assures me that he would not mind--that on Earth such a victory would not be impolite--I am Athosian, and I must treat him well by my standards.

Sometimes I fall a bit behind him so that I can see him move. He is--oh, beautiful. Long and sleek and fast and strong. I used to ponder the idea of asking him for a child someday. The pairing would be lovely. Perhaps it would take me several cycles to take. I would give him massages and teach him to bring me flowers and nuts. When we succeeded, our play would be traded for a lovely baby with my dark skin and his dark hair. John is intelligent and healthy. He has great courage and he is kind. And my child would have a father from Earth, which would surely be of help to her. John would make a good father, and remaining friends--kin--with him for fifteen or twenty years or so would be no burden.

Now, when I think of my children there is no joy. John Sheppard is beautiful and strong, but I am part Wraith. The gifts of that are useful, but very bitter. The fears and nightmares I suffered when I was young--they were not chance. I could not have avoided those feelings, and neither could any child of mine.

And also--most people fear the Wraith. With reason. No one knew about my heritage when I was growing up. No one feared me, not then. Some do fear me now. Whenever we are vulnerable, I am the first place some people look.

I am lost in thought, mourning the children I will never have, when Colonel Sheppard and I turn a corner and see Dr. Zelenka and Dr. Heightmeyer playing together on the causeway. Colonel Sheppard stops abruptly, and I, just behind, bump into him, and we stand together, staring in surprise, for several long seconds.

Dr. Heightmeyer is very lovely, and Dr. Zelenka looks very, very happy.

Colonel Sheppard takes my wrist very gently and draws me back into the lee of a building so that we cannot see. "Well," he says. "That was...."

"Yes, it was," I say.

He takes a flat panel from his hip pocket and pulls up a map of Atlantis. "Okay, if we backtrack about ten meters we can cut through the water treatment plant and go around them."

"All right."

We stand together for a moment without moving. Then Colonel Sheppard says, "Did you know that--?"

"No. Did you?"

"No."

I turn back the way we came, and he follows. "Perhaps it is new," I say. "Dr. Zelenka was acting strangely last night, also."

"Really?" he casts a frown over his shoulder, but the couple are out of sight. "How?"

"I spent the evening with Dr. Weir. She asked me to represent the Pegasus Galaxy when she hosted Hermiod."

"Ouch."

"I found him most polite." Colonel Sheppard rolls his eyes. "But as I was saying, yesterday afternoon, Dr. Zelenka disassembled most of the control room."

"Why? What happened?"

"And then," I shrug, "he put it back together."

"But--what broke?"

"Nothing. Apparently. He only seemed curious about their inner workings."

"That's ... not like him."

"I was very late to dinner. Hermiod declined to eat with us. When I reached the commissary, most people had already left, but Dr. Zelenka was still there. He was singing."

"Wow. What was he singing?" We pause outside the locked maintenance access to the water treatment plant while Colonel Shepard uses his ATA to override the security and open it.

"I do not know. The translator rejected it. Unless the song really was about a dead bird."

The door opened with the silent magic of doors in Atlantis and we enter carefully. "Well--was he any good?"

I wonder, briefly, if commenting negatively on someone's singing would be considered impolite. I settle on politeness. "No. The Marines who were present did not think so either."

"Huh. Maybe he's in love." He laughs once. "Maybe he's--you guys have a saying: 'Maybe he's eaten all the food.'"

I correct, "'Maybe he has eaten the last meat from his bag.'" The saying refers to a plant that grows on many planets in this galaxy. It's bitter and difficult to prepare, but during times of blight or drought it can sustain hungry people for months. If it is not boiled and washed carefully, however, it is quite toxic. The early symptoms include escalating changes in behavior and thinking. Large quantities are usually fatal. I think of Dr. Zelenka singing in the commissary and shake my head. "I think not. The plant does not does not grow on the mainland here, and I did not notice it on Uit." We walk slowly here. Running in unused or unfamiliar areas would be needlessly dangerous. As we pass the lights go on and turn off behind us. "He hasn't been anywhere else, lately."

"Must be love, then," Colonel Sheppard says.

 

~Rodney McKay, M.S. Ph.D., Ph.D., Sciences Administrator, Department Head  
Astrophysics, Department Head Exo-engineering, Atlantis Project

As far as Ancient technology is concerned, doing the math is usually the easy part. On a theoretical level, the numbers fit together in perfect elegance. It is usually a glorious experience, tracing out their theorems and equations.

The practical applications are generally a pain in the ass.

For the last three hours I've been looking at the design schematics and engineering specs for the drone weapons. I have had two live human beings translate the text we found in the Atlantis database. I've put it through the Ancients' own translator protocol. I've written out a word by word glossary. And as far as I can tell, fully half of these "specs" are, in fact, some kind of poetry.

When Radek comes in I am so glad to see him that I almost say so. He holds out two bowls. "Look what I have got!"

"It's salad," I say.

"The first crop of tomatoes from the mainland!" He sets a bowl down in  
front of me and retrieves a pair of forks from his pocket. "They're very  
good."

"Thanks," I say, mostly because I'm surprised. They do look good; small and red. Sliced open, they glisten with juice. "You know, I just lost money on this. I had a bet with Sheppard that they wouldn't grow." Everybody in the Pegasus galaxy seems to trade seeds and cuttings back and forth through their gates. Practical botanists, they experiment as they can, the shocking changes of climates and soils and light frequencies nurturing genetic variations into thousands of slightly different varieties. The Athosians aren't the best farmers by far. Nearly half their diet on Athos had come from hunting and trade. I have to admit they'd made good headway with their little village on the mainland, though. And that tomato smells wonderful.

"Win some, lose some. So how's it coming with the drones?"

I snort, looking over the salad. The 'greens' are purple, but I'm used to that. "Don't ask. It's not a blueprint; it's some kind of art form." There are little brown seeds that are not as good as croutons would be, but I know they're pure protein. And instead of bacon bits, chopped turkey jerky brought in by the Daedalus. All in all, it's the nicest salad I've seen in months.

I let the suspense build and take that first dramatic bite. "I missed  
tomatoes," I sigh.

"I miss fresh eggs," Radek says, seating himself at the stool caddy corner to mine and taking a bite of his own salad.

"Steak," I say, chewing. The tomato is as good as it looked--firm and sweet and if the flavor is a little sharper than I remember, well, the last time I was home it was winter and the tomatoes were pale, tasteless things. This is heaven.

"Pickle soup."

"Heh. Not even you. Milk. Real milk, I mean. Not sheep-thing milk, not  
goat-thing milk, not scaly-thing milk, not dog-thing milk...."

Radek rolls his eyes. "You're as spoiled as the Americans."

"The salad dressing's good."

"Thank you. I threw it together myself."

I examine a purple leaf of something that might be distantly related to lettuce. "Vinegar. Not from Earth, but good. That gray fruit that tastes like garlic. Something ... tangy."

"That's the lime."

The words fly past before sinking in. When they do, terror stabs through me from my head to my feet. For the long moment before I decide he is kidding, my life flashes before my eyes, even though I know this is Radek, and he would never--

When the irrational panic passes I am furious. "That wasn't funny." I slam the bowl down, my appetite completely gone.

"Well, it wasn't a joke, but it is very funny." He doesn't look either contrite or amused, but what Radek is doing fades into the background because my lips are tingling.

I stumble as I leap off the stool and trip over my feet as I scamper to the corner. My computer case has an Epipen in it -- as does my field kit and the bathroom in my quarters. I grope among the mechanical pencils in the front pocket while trying to keep an eye on Radek. He watches me calmly. He is still eating, and doesn't even look terribly interested.

As my hand closes around the smooth, reassuring cylinder, Radek is still watching me, munching his lime-covered tomatoes. I jam the automatic needle into my leg. The shot will kick in any moment. The inside of my mouth itches. Radek has not moved.

He cannot be Radek Zelenka. It has to be a shape shifter, or the victim of some kind of mind control. He would never--not on purpose--

He would never.

When I look up again, Radek is holding a gun.

"But I won't let you die of anaphylactic shock, Rodney. Unlike you, I am not fond of casual cruelty."

Apparently all my higher brain processes have completely shut down, because I simply stare at him like a moose in the headlights. "You're a nice guy, so you're going to shoot me instead?"

Radek takes the safety off the gun, but he handles it awkwardly, and while he's trying to aim, I finally force myself up, jamming my gut on the corner of the table in the process, but at least landing on top of Radek. I grab the arm holding the gun, and manage to stay uppermost as we crash to the floor.

Landing hurts. He tries to roll me, to jerk the gun free. I hold on as he wiggles and heaves and an elbow crashes into my nose. I smell and taste blood, feel it run down my face, sticky and warm. To my great surprise, it doesn't frighten me as much as it pisses me off. Radek has lost his mind, there will be a huge mess to clean up, how am I going to explain this to anyone--

I scream. Loudly. Which not only vents my frustration and makes Radek flinch and drop the gun, but best of all, seems to clear my mind -- why the fuck haven't I radioed for help? I shove the gun aside, and, with my hands finally freed, try to pin him. His teeth close hard on my arm and--

He bit me! He bit me. It hurts. And I'm really disappointed. He slithers away on his belly, scrambling for the gun.

I throw myself on top of him and I grab for my headset. It's still there. I don't realize that I am setting the frequency for my unit leader rather than for the emergency channel until I'm yelling, "Colonel Sheppard!"

I hear him sigh on the other end. "What, Rodney?"

"Radek's trying to kill me!"

There is a short pause, then, "Who is trying to what?"

"Dr. Zelenka," I grind out, "is trying," I grunt, dodging the back of his head, which is trying to land another shot at my nose, "to kill me."

"Rodney, I don't have time for this--"

I miss the rest of his impatient whine because Radek finally manages to bring a chair down on top of us. Or rather, since I'm on top, on me. I get hit on the back of the head and between the shoulder blades. It hurts badly enough to be a skull fracture, and while I am stunned by the breathtaking pain, Radek slips free and throws himself at the gun once more. I am tangled in the chair, which slows me down enough that he reaches it almost a second ahead of me.

This time I don't waste time trying to wrestle, I just haul off and hit him in the jaw. When my fist connects we both howl. It turns out that slamming your hand into a bone at a good clip hurts.

I realize that John is yelling in my ear. "Rodney! Rodney!"

"I could use some help here," I gasp. My head is at a bad angle, and blood from my nose drips into my open mouth. I gag.

Radek kicks at me and misses. I grab the gun and throw it. Snarling, Radek throws himself on top of me. I go down, striking the back of my head against the floor. My headset is knocked off and lands halfway across the room. Well. Fat lot of good it was doing anyway.

Radek is sitting on my stomach. The look in his eyes makes my blood run cold. He reaches down and grabs my hair.

"Radek! What are you doing? Stop!"

He doesn't stop. He lifts my head by the hair, intending, I think, to crack my head against the floor. I grab his arms and twist, bringing him crashing down beside me instead. I knee him in the gut, and he grunts and gasps. Crawling on top of him, I manage to pin his shoulders with my arms. Radek looks up into my face with pure hatred.

My tongue feels swollen in my mouth, and my fingers are starting to itch. The epinephrine should be kicking in any second now. Otherwise, Radek may actually kill me, even without the gun.

 

~Lt. Colonel John Shepard, United States Air Force

Normally, I hate meetings, but this one's catered. Halling has brought the first crop of tomatoes over from the mainland. They're small, but sweet and flavorful, and in celebration the quartermaster has broken out the good olive oil and real mayonnaise.

"You can have the whole crop," Halling is saying. "We don't mind growing them, but ... the taste?" he shrugs and shakes his head. "Consider it a gift."

"Thank you. That's very generous," Elizabeth says. Elizabeth is chairing the weekly supply and provisioning meeting. This time, beside her, me, Teyla, the quartermaster and the cook, we have guests: Halling and the botanist assigned to the Athosian colony on the mainland. Elizabeth and Halling don't always agree, but Elizabeth is making a point of being polite and friendly in order to show that any problems they have had in the past aren't personal. "How is the rest of the crop coming?"

"Our own crops have a longer growing season. The grain won't be ready for another twenty local days at least. The smallfruits at about the same time. The smallfruit crop is going to be huge, by the way. We'll be giving it to you by the basket load."

"Congratulations," Elizabeth says. "I'm very impressed."

"What do we do with smallfruits?" the cook asks.

"Eat them raw or baked, as many as you can stuff in, and dry the rest. But it must be done at once. They quickly go bad," Teyla answers.

"What about the Balkan grain?" Teyla asks.

"It's in the ground, but it won't germinate quickly in this soil. Another few days before we'll see shoots. There's something else. Herds of large land mammals moving to the northwest. Hoofed mammals--"

Halling leans sideways to Teyla, whispers something. Teyla thinks and interjects, "Half a metric ton."

"About half a metric ton each in size. We've already brought one down. It's good meat."

"You need help hunting more?" Elizabeth asks.

"No, we need help processing it. We have a plan that will bring down--perhaps a dozen if we are lucky. Food for months. But you see the problem. We cannot butcher and dry it fast enough. In four days it will rot, and that is not enough time."

The quartermaster sits up alertly. He is a small, bookish, balding man, very nearly a caricature of a clerk. Elizabeth picked the very best staff available, and that includes Samuel Lawton. He never loses paperwork, never forgets anything, never needs to bother with excuses. He is perfect. If he cannot get you what you need, he will find something better. "We have a medium sized refrigeration unit in Tower H. It's still running off our generator, not city power. It's small enough to fit in a puddlejumper and if we can manage to power it up.... Of course, as far as that goes, we could just ferry loads of meat back to the city. I've got a dozen large units not even currently turned on."

Elizabeth nods. "We should ask engineering which is more feasible. At the very least we should offer the Athosians their own refrigerator."

Halling looks a bit bemused. At a guess, I'd say he expected we'd offer help butchering the animals, not a way to store it un-decayed.

My headset makes the chirp that indicates one of my team is calling me, which is surprising. I don't usually get direct messages from them when we're home.

"Colonel Sheppard!" It's Rodney, and he sounds furious at somebody.

Wincing an apology at Elizabeth, I mutter, "What, Rodney?"

Elizabeth shoots me an impatient look. Over the com, Rodney screams something unintelligible.

"Who is trying to what?"

"Dr. Zelenka," he yells "is trying to kill me." There is considerable interference and background noise.

He's called me in to referee one of his arguments? Not a habit I want to encourage. I love him dearly, but he completely redefines high maintenance.

"Rodney, I don't have time for this. I'm in a meeting. Whatever you did to him, apologize and get back to work."

Rodney doesn't answer, but over the headset I hear a series of crashes and a howl of pain. "Rodney? Are you all right?"

He doesn't answer me. Watching me, Elizabeth taps her own headset. "Maxim, *gde racpolozheno* Doctor McKay?"

I can't get Rodney to answer me. Automatically, I check my gun and nod to Teyla.

"Simulations lab," Elizabeth says. Maxim has found him.

I run. If this is not, in fact, an emergency, I will rip him a new one. But I run, because if it is.... The physics labs are just two corridors over from the conference room. When I burst into the smallish room where they do imaginary experiments with theoretical physics, I find Rodney sitting on top of Zelenka. Both of them are covered with blood and look positively murderous.

I haul Rodney off. He is too heavy to toss across the room, but I dump him on the floor, plant myself between them, and bellow, "What the hell is going on here?"

"He tried to kill me!" Rodney sputters, wiping the blood from his face onto his sleeve, which doesn't make him look any less frightful. He's shaking and panting for breath.

I have no response for his ridiculous statement, but after a moment Teyla says carefully, "I find that unlikely."

I glance behind me, toward Dr. Zelenka crouching on the floor. "Well?" I say.

"I'm not trying to kill him."

I turn back to Rodney. "There. You see?"

"I am *going* to kill him." Zelenka is already springing at me. He snatches the knife from my belt and reaches for Rodney. A flash of the knife, and there is blood all over Rodney's arm. Belatedly, I grab for Zelenka and only catch the end of his jacket. Rodney has lost his balance and cannot defend himself. I yell--

Teyla's foot snaps out, sends the knife spinning from Zelenka's hand so hard that it bounces off the far wall. I grab Zelenka and shove him back and down. He lands on his butt on the floor, and Teyla moves smoothly to block him from further movement.

"Rodney?"

He pulls aside his sleeve, searching for the wound. As he exposes the cut on the inside of his arm, a squirt of blood leaps three feet in the air.

Rodney screams.

I drop down beside him, clamping the wound with my hand. Not sterile. Carson can compensate later.

"He hit an artery! Oh god, oh god. I'm going to bleed to death right here."

"I've got it," I say gently. "Rodney? You're okay. Look, Teyla's going to call Carson. Okay? It's going to be fine."

Even as I say the words I know I am making a mistake. I don't know why he tends to believe the situation must be totally hopeless if I'm being nice. Maybe he's just spent way too many hours listening to people tell him happy lies.

Rodney starts to hyperventilate. "I think I'm going to faint," he gasps, and, actually, he might. His face is red and swollen. Congratulations, John. You have just made things worse.

"Faint later, McKay. Right now give me a report."

"I'd like one, too," Elizabeth says coolly from the door.

With both of us looking impatient and disapproving--and most of all, in control of the situation--Rodney settles down a little. Though he's still panting for breath, he manages to say, "He tried to kill me!"

"Yeah, I'm getting that." I turn to Zelenka, still sitting sullenly on the other side of Teyla. "Why?"

"There is just no pleasing him. He is never satisfied. He is never even respectful. I have the sort of job I did not even dream I would have--and this bastard has sucked all the joy out of my life."

Still holding pressure on Rodney's arm. I can feel him shudder.

Zelenka isn't finished. "I worked for him for nine months before he could be bothered to remember my name! Tell me I was not doing everyone a favor."

Elizabeth and Teyla look at Zelenka in disbelief. Rodney looks ready to cry. I shift so he can't see Zelenka any more. "Tell me what happened."

Rodney closes his eyes, still heaving for breath.

"Now, McKay."

"He brought lunch," Rodney whispers. Elizabeth has to step closer to hear him. "Sometimes we ... eat lunch when we translate equations or .... He put lime in the salad dressing."

Now, I panic. Rodney's red face, the tears in his eyes, dear God, his labored breaths. It's not emotion -- or not *all* emotion -- but the classic symptoms of anaphylaxis.

I switch my headset to the emergency channel and bellow, "Carson, where the hell are you?"

"What's wrong, Colonel?"

"Rodney's been exposed to an allergen." My words come out flat instead of calm.

With his free hand, Rodney shakes me weakly. "I already took epinephrine," he rasps.

"He says he's used his Epipen," I tell Carson. Rodney nods weakly in agreement.

"I'm almost there." Carson is the only one who sounds calm. Maintaining the pressure on his arm, I shift Rodney around so he's sprawled halfway across my lap, shoulders on my thighs, his head propped against my gut.

"He wasn't going to kill me with the salad," Rodney gasps. "He said.... He, um, he tried to kill me with the gun."

"Gun?"

Rodney flaps his hand towards a corner. Yes, there's the sidearm. Well ... crap. Zelenka seems to have been pretty damned serious about this

Carson comes tearing in with a medical bag in each hand. He looks at the five of us and drops to his knees beside Rodney. "What happened? The short version, please."

"Dr. Zelenka fed McKay lime salad dressing. Then sliced him pretty good with my knife." I gesture towards Rodney's arm with my chin.

Carson's face goes almost comical with astonishment, eyebrows crawling up his forehead, mouth dropping open, but he recovers quickly enough to tell me, "Then please keep the pressure on Rodney's arm for me, Colonel." Then he's on the radio asking for a full trauma team, stat.

He bends forward and shines a light into Rodney's eyes and takes his pulse. Quick, economical, profoundly gentle movements. Carson lays his hands on Rodney's face, then lets his fingers move slowly down his throat. His expression stays thoughtful and calm. Producing a bottle and a syringe, he swiftly begins to prepare an injection. "Rodney? Is the epinephrine helping at all?"

"Yes," Rodney whispers, almost breathless, but then he says, "No, Christ, no, it's not. Carson --" His free hand starts to flail.

"All right," Carson says catching his hand and tucking it back to his side. "Let's get you down on the floor. Watch the pressure on that arm, Colonel."

Then Carson has a terrible thought. I see the brief wince like physical pain, but his hands on Rodney don't falter, delivering two injections in quick succession. "Radek, lad, did you have access to Rodney's Epipen?"

"Not Radek," Rodney gasps, trying to get his head up. "He would never.... It's got to be -- shape shifter. A robot. One of those humanform Replicators."

Zelenka snarls, "You'd like your staff to be robots, wouldn't you? Then you could treat us like machines and we wouldn't care. I put distilled water in his Epipen. Anyone would have."

Oh, my God. "Carson --" I'm begging for a miracle as Rodney's head drops back. He looks like he's already given up. "Teyla, get Zelenka out of here."

Carson has pulled out his second bag and is deftly assembling a nightmarish device. It's a curving foot and a half long, with a light and a blade at one end. "Elizabeth," he says, "Rodney and I could use your help."

She drops to her knees beside us, white-faced and very unhappy, as Carson runs his hand down Rodney's throat. "Put your thumb right here. You'll want to keep a steady pressure for me while we intubate."

"Carson, no." Rodney hasn't given up after all, not if he's still complaining.

He tries to bat Carson's and Elizabeth's hands away from himself, so I wrap my other hand around his and press it to the floor. "Easy, McKay. It's not up for committee right now."

Rodney ignores me. "Please." It comes out a wheezing gasp. "At least put me out first."

Carson shakes his head regretfully, shifting his position until he's kneeling behind Rodney's head. "With that bloody nose, I'm afraid I'd like all the lights on for this. It'll be a wee bit uncomfortable, but the local will take care of any pain."

"Fucking *liar*," Rodney mouths, no breath behind the words, and he squeezes my hand hard. I know Elizabeth must *really* be hoping the damn trauma team would get here, but when Carson tells her, "Keep the pressure firm and steady, straight back," she locks her jaw and bears down on Rodney's throat. Carson covers her hand momentarily to check the position, then pulls Rodney's mouth open with his gloved hand. "We'll make an ER nurse out of you yet," he tells Elizabeth absently. "Rodney, it'll go easier if you can hold this position for me. Just relax."

Rodney looks up into my face -- and the stubborn son-of-a-bitch actually rolls his eyes at me. I'm grinning back helplessly as Rodney squeezes his eyes shut, just before Carson blocks my view. He angles his appalling device in across Rodney's chin and over his teeth, his fist at the central bend and his eyes watching the scope at the top. Rodney makes a soft choking sound, and his shoulders flinch. His short nails are digging into my hand.

"Easy," Carson says quietly. "Almost there."

I hear the trauma team arriving long last, Teyla saying something behind me. Across Rodney's body from me, Elizabeth's face is stone, her eyes fixed in the middle distance, and carefully unfocused.

Carson pulls his device straight back -- Christ, I didn't know there was so much *give* in a human throat -- and Rodney's spine arches up off the floor.

Corporal Mavens drops to his knees beside Elizabeth, easily and gently displacing her, and Elizabeth scoots back out of the way. Gratefully, I don't doubt. Rodney is trembling, full, hard body shudders that lift his shoulders off the floor, heels kicking in spasmodic jerks. But oxygen is flowing now, and when I catch a glimpse of his face, it's no longer that terrible slate red. A long slit up Rodney's sleeve, then, and Mavens has an IV started, all without dislodging Rodney's grip on my hand.

There's some sort of commotion behind me. Apparently Teyla hasn't gotten Zelenka out of the room yet. She ought to call extra security because nobody needs the distraction right now, but I'm not actually worried about her ability to handle one scientist. At least, not until I see Carson's eyes dart in that direction. "Oh, bloody hell," he mutters, before dropping his left hand briefly on Rodney's shoulder. "Not you, lad. You're doing great.

I crane my head over my shoulder to see.

Zelenka is curled into a ball on his side with Dr. Biro kneeling over him. She must have come in with the trauma team. When she touches Zelenka he flinches and whimpers. "No fever," she announces cheerfully. "Pupils responsive. Carson, I'm calling another stretcher team." She tries to turn Zelenka to examine him more thoroughly, but he fights her in a distracted and feeble way, crying out as though every touch hurts him.

God knows I'm not happy to see Dr. Zelenka in pain, but a part of me is profoundly relieved all the same. Rodney was right. Dr. Zelenka was sick, crazy -- at any rate, clearly out of his head when he attacked Rodney.

"I'm having the isolation room prepped, too." There's the same matter-of fact cheer in Dr. Biro's voice. "This is turning into quite the mad tea party. You may have to quarantine all of us."

~Carson Beckett, MD, Chief of Staff, Atlantis Project Medical Department; Department Head Biosciences

Rodney's color is better. He's still pale, but pale is better than blue. He's breathing on his own and his heart rate is normal. He'll come out of the sedative soon. His nose isn't broken, though he'll be sporting a lovely black eye for a week or so. The MRI for those bumps on his noggin came out clean, and the cut on his arm has been sewn up so tidily I doubt it will even scar. Colonel Sheppard is still here, watching from the corner as I check monitors. John Sheppard has seen combat and natural disasters. He's seen men eaten by Wraith. As experienced as he is, though, he looks positively haunted as he watches Rodney McKay sleep.

I check my watch. Dr. Zelenka isn't due for another blood test for almost ten minutes, so I approach Colonel Sheppard. "He's going to be fine," I say softly.

He blinks and raises his eyes from the still form on the bed. "If *eating* something could do that to me .... I don't know how he eats at all."

"The hypoglycemia is a strong incentive," I remind him.

"I didn't picture --" He winces. "I didn't know it would be like that."

"It's hard," I say gently, "When it's a friend."

The colonel seems to remember himself. He straightens and looks me in the eye. "So, when can I have him back?"

"On duty, you mean?" I ask, thinking that John Sheppard must be a difficult man to work for. "I won't let him work tomorrow. And I don't want him off-planet for at least three days."

Something flickers in his eyes, and I think, perhaps, it wasn't a professional question after all. "And he's going to be fine?"

"He's going to be fine. Remember, he's been through this all before."

"Except the last time he went into anaphylactic shock, he probably hadn't been poisoned by a friend!" Angry, so angry. I can't blame him.

"No," I agree quietly. "I'd assume not."

"So what the hell happened?" he demands softly, his eyes going to the isolation room. "Zelenka's got to be the most stable person here."

Right now, poor Radek is strapped down in his bed. He isn't strapped tightly because he's barely conscious, curled into a ball with muscle cramps and nausea.

"It wasn't his fault, John," I say softly. "Murdering Rodney--murdering anyone--isn't something he would ever choose to do in his right mind. His condition resembles something Teyla's people call 'desperation on top of heartbreak' or 'the hunger madness.' It comes from a food plant improperly prepared."

He nods slowly. "They joke about it. Like we joke about loco weed. " He begins to look, finally, a little less angry. "What are his chances?"

"From her and Halling's description of some of the symptoms, I thought this might be some kind of alkali poisoning. But none of the tests are bearing that out. Even if it does turn out to be the problem, I'm not sure yet what I can do. And I still haven't ruled out microorganism involvement. But John, son, you mustn't blame Radek. The stories about this hunger madness are quite extreme: A man who leaped off a cliff carrying his infant son. A woman who set her tent on fire and burned the entire camp to the ground. It's clearly a devastating condition. Radek really didn't know what he was doing."

~Ronon Dex, Guest of Atlantis

I have never been to the refuge before, although I have heard of it. The place to run if Atlantis were to be destroyed. As planets go, it's ... not bad. The sun is bright, the vegetation is lush. It is hot here and the air is still. The only movement in the trees is large insects that hop from branch to branch. "What is it we're looking for?" I ask. We have been in too much a hurry for anyone to explain.

"Desperation." Teyla says shortly. "I have seen it here before. It is a weed. A poisonous plant."

"Right. Okay. Something you think one of the scientists has been eating?"

"It can be prepared as a food, but it is not very good." She takes off quickly into the trees.

"Mr. Dex," Dr. Parrish asks, "Do you know anything about this Desperation?" He's stomping along as though this were a corridor in Atlantis, no eyes for anything except the underbrush at his feet.

"No. I never heard of anything like that."

"I cannot imagine how Dr. Zelenka came to eat it," Teyla calls over her shoulder. "Even if he had it, no one would eat it if they had a choice. It is bitter. The leaves are tough and stringy."

"Ah," Parrish says. He seems fascinated by a clump of toadstools growing in the shadow of a fallen tree. He bends his tall, skinny frame over double to get a closer look. "So you're having second thoughts about it being our culprit?"

"I am 'having second thoughts' about it being an accident."

"Oh." Parrish abruptly straightens up.

I try to picture someone meaning to kill the harmless little man I sat at breakfast with just a few days before. Killing Wraith, well, obviously. It is the most important thing a man or woman can do. Killing those who betray others to the Wraith--even Teyla sees that as necessary. Killing one of your own camp, either comrade or civilian: ridiculous.

Even the oblivious Dr. Parrish seems to agree with me. "Do you see Radek as a murder victim?"

"I do not," Teyla says. She points to a thicket on the other side of the meadow we are crossing.

The plant she is looking for is tall, with broad, light green leaves. At once, Teyla pulls her knife and begins to cut the long stalks.

I reach out and run my fingers along the nearest plant. "Wait, don't do that," Dr. Parrish protests. "It may cause contact dermatitis, or worse."

"It is safe to touch," Teyla answers.

I pull a leaf free, crush it in my hand. It is larger than those I remember, but familiar just the same. "I know this plant," I say. "It is a great delicacy. My grandmother used to grow it in the garden. It needed special fertilizer."

Teyla glances up. "You jest," she says. "A delicacy? It's barely edible."

"She used to boil it for two days, changing the water three times every day." I close my eyes, remembering, and the memory is a pain in my heart. "She would add vinegar at the end, or blossom wine. And serve it with little fruits. It was very good."

When Teyla has a sizable pile of leafy stalks, she and Dr. Parrish divide it between them and carry it back to the gate. I follow, keeping guard.

~John Sheppard, United States Air Force

I want to wake him up. Beckett would throw me out for that sort of thing, though, and, anyway, it would be really mean. Rodney--

To keep myself from pacing, I lean against the wall. I have my com on and tuned to the operations channel. Nothing much is happening, though, except for Sato and Patel doing a systems check in the control room. Teyla returned ten minutes ago with the plant. I'm not holding out much hope it will be useful. No matter what Zelenka's symptoms look like, he was never even on the same planet with it.

Elizabeth came down when Teyla brought the sample in. She cast worried looks at both beds and went out again. I ... just can't seem to leave.

Rodney stirs, and I am beside the bed so quickly I might have gated there. Really, I'm surprised he hasn't seen through me yet. "Hey," I say softly.

One of the techs, seeing the movement, comes over and checks the monitors before going out again. I stay still, waiting. Eventually, he opens his eyes.

Carefully, he looks around, looks at me. "Still alive," he croaks.

I nod.

"We don't," he coughs, tries again. "We don't pay Carson enough."

I smile. "No, we don't. How do you feel?"

He looks at me impatiently--silently reminding me that I am an idiot--and says, "Any water?"

There is, in fact, a glass of water beside his bed. Blessing Carson's staff, I hold it out so he can reach the straw.

He sips only a little and then says, "Where's Radek?"

"He's in isolation."

Rodney sits up carefully and takes the cup from me. "Where did you find him?"

Where did I find him? Worried again, I say carefully, "He was with you. In the lab."

Surprised and alarmed, Rodney begins to untape his IV. "That wasn't Radek."

Carson didn't say anaphylaxis could cause hallucinations. "What do you mean? Who was it?"

"I don't know! Whatever it was, it wasn't him. Radek would never--He wouldn't--"

I catch his shoulders before he can get his feet on the floor and push him back into bed. "Radek isn't himself just now."

"You don't understand. Whatever humanoid replicator or shape-shifter that was, it tried to kill me. It fed me citrus. Radek would... never...."

I shake my head sadly.

"How can you know?" His voice, raw and cracked from the cruel magic Carson did to keep him alive, manages to rise an octave.

"Carson put him through that Ancient MRI-thing. If there were any deviation, he would have detected it."

"Well--mind control, then. John, Radek Zelenka did not just try to kill me."

"He's very sick, Rodney. We think he might have been poisoned. We're not sure how. He's been acting weird for the last two days. Last night he was singing in the mess hall."

"Oh, yeah. That's an easy jump. Singing in the mess hall to--to--" He flinches back as though he's been burned. "He tried to kill me."

"No! He--I told you. He's sick. He didn't know what he was doing."

"He knew exactly what he was doing," he croaks softly. "He was as careful and meticulous in planning the murder as he is in his equations." With a soft groan, he drops his head in his hands.

Crap. What am I supposed to do now? One of the handful of people he actually gets along with just tried to kill him.

Carson's return saves me from having to think of some comforting lie that Rodney wouldn't have believed anyway. "Well! You're looking much better. How are we feeling?"

Rodney looks up quickly. "Carson. Thank you. I mean that. You--you really...."

The doctor pretends not to notice that Rodney is actually at a loss for words. He smiles genially and teases, "Well, 'tis only medicine, after all. Hardly counts as a science. Mostly trial and error, really. Or voodoo. Not worth mentioning."

To our horror, instead of teasing back or telling Carson to bug off, Rodney's eyes go round. I can't tell if it's hurt or shame that grips him. "No," he whispers. "I never meant--except, really, I did mean. I mean, that's the whole problem, isn't it?"

Worried, Carson asks me. "What's he on about? How long has he been incoherent? If he's showing symptoms, too, we'll have to test the whole science staff."

"He's not incoherent. He's just depressed because--you know. The attempted murder thing."

"Yes," Rodney manages to grind out, though it must seriously hurt to talk at this point. "He knows. The murder thing. The part where one of my best friends tried to kill me. Because, apparently, I have sucked all the joy out of his life."

"All right, settle down. You've got enough chemicals in you now to make you *quite* moody. You aren't the only patient I have--"

"Is Radek going to be all right?"

"I'm still working on that, and I could get back to him if you would let me finish examining you, hmmm?"

He looks stricken. "Sorry--"

Carson glances worriedly at me and sighs. "The test is in the centrifuge, Rodney. I have two more minutes. Major Sheppard, if you'd leave us alone--?"

Thrown out, I head back to work. Technically, I'm on duty for another hour. On the other hand, *technically*, I'm never off duty anyway.

~Halling Nemurer, on the World of the Ancestors

Charin looks around the Atlantis infirmary disapprovingly. I hope the doctor does not notice. Charin is often too direct to be polite, and she dislikes the city. "It's an exciting place to visit," she said when the puddlejumper landed, "but only a madwoman would live here."

"Teyla lives here," I said, hoping that any complaints would be said to me so that the Earth people would not be insulted by her frankness.

"A sacrifice she makes for us."

Now her frankness is warring with her circumspection. "You have tied him," she says to the doctor. She has managed to sound curious rather than disapproving.

"He was violent, earlier," the doctor answers. The man on the high, narrow, hard bed is pale and still. I think he is conscious although his eyes are closed. He is curled tightly around his middle, and sometimes his jaw clinches, as though in pain.

"Ah." With one finger Charin touches the binding at the scientist's wrists. "We have not thought of that." She leans forward to peer at the skin. There is no sign of bruising or torn flesh. "These are well made. Perhaps this was a kindness."

"Ma'am," the doctor says politely, "I've no experience with this condition. The chemicals in his blood match the plant you Athosians call 'Desperation.' Teyla suggested you might have some ideas."

Charin frowns and shakes her head. "Water," she says. "We give water, as much as the victim can drink, from the moment we suspect poisoning. This is very late and ... the water doesn't always work."

The doctor lays a hand on her arm and leads her a few feet away from the patient, asking, "What is the usual course of the condition?"

"We begin giving water as soon as the first symptoms appear. At first, they drink willingly. Later, they may have to be threatened or forced. When they have consumed so much water that they begin to vomit, that is enough. If enough water is consumed quickly, most of the poison is pissed away: there may be no cramping, only mild sickness and then recovery.

"However, the water is given too late or too little, the madness is followed by muscle cramps, vomiting, blurred vision, and, in a day or two, death."

"That's it?"

"I'm sorry." She looks at him kindly. "You may be able to do better with your technology."

"That much fluid," the doctor mutters, glancing back at the bed, "maybe speed things up with diuretics. You'd have to be careful of his electrolytes or risk hyponatremia. Maybe-- you could cheat and run him through dialysis. We didn't bring a machine with us, but the Ancients.... But I've not used it before."

~Lieutenant Cadman, Atlantis Project

There's this line in my favorite movie: "Actually, I'm from Iowa. I just work in outer space." It makes working in Outer Space sound like so much fun. Even knowing that no dream job is a thrill a minute all the time, though, eight hours in a puddlejumper doing a topological survey is pretty harsh. Me and the other military escort, Private Tchiltoski, a geologist, a topographer, and the pilot flying up and down the valleys and hills of the Atlantis mainland. The survey had been started months ago, but what with the Wrath attack and cleaning up after it, they'd never finished.

Actually--it wouldn't have been so bad if I could have seen out a window. Probably that's why I feel so frustrated and bored--all day, right outside, there had been a world that hardly anybody'd lived on in ten thousand years, and I didn't get to see any of it.

When we disembark from the puddlejumper all I am thinking about is a shower. And a nice long run before dinner. Probably not in that order. Hurrying through the halls, I don't see Rodney until I'm on top of him, and when I do, I almost trip over myself with surprise. "My god! What happened to your face? Did somebody--hit you?" That's what it looks like. His nose is swollen and he has a black eye. I'm surprised. The physical sciences section is loud, but I've never heard of violence breaking out.

He freezes for a moment, then says stiffly, "Radek did." His voice is hoarse, like he's coming down with a bad cold.

"You're kidding. Why?"

"Well, apparently, it seemed the thing to do between trying to shoot me and stabbing me."

"Well, fine, if you don't want to say," I shrug.

My communicator--not as snazzy as the ones on science fiction shows, but conveniently clipped to my ear, clicks on. "Cadman to the conference room," Colonel Sheppard's voice says.

"Yes, Sir," I say, waving to Rodney and hurrying back the way I came.

The Colonel is dressed in his BDUs even though no offworld missions were scheduled for today. He drops the bomb that we are investigating a possible attempted murder. Apparently, they've just confirmed that Dr. Zelenka has been poisoned, and it might not have been an accident.

"Teyla, take Dr. Parrish and Dex and go back to Uit. Make damn sure that weed isn't hiding behind a rock somewhere. I really want this to have been some kind of mistake. Lawton, we're going to inspect and test the food. Start with supplies that have been tapped in the last three days, but test everything that wasn't sealed into a container on Earth. Draft the biologists; they're good at this sort of thing. And nobody eats anything that hasn't been cleared. Cadman."

"Sir!"

"I'm putting you in charge of the--well--criminal investigation. I can't imagine what the motive would be or why anybody would choose this method, but search Zelenka's quarters and start talking to his friends and colleagues. That new archaeologist--short guy, red hair, used to work with the police--"

"Franz, Sir," I add.

"Right. Franz. Make him your assistant. If you need more help, draft anyone you want, but not Heightmeyer or McKay. They're material witnesses."

"Zelenka hit Heightmeyer too?" I gasp. I'm still trying to get my head around his hitting Rodney.

"No, he was dating her. Check into that angle first."

I'm not sure what surprises me more: Zelenka dating Heightmeyer or that I haven't heard about it yet. The Earth presence on Atlantis still runs less then four hundred people. That is too small a community to keep a secret about who is seeing whom.

~Carson Beckett, MD, Chief of Staff, Medical Department; Department Head, Biosciences; Atlantis Project

The small device I hold in my hand has four wicked-looking prongs. Its weight seems to change as I move it from one place to another. It is glowing. None of this is reassuring.

The instructions contained in the medical computer say it is for pain relief. I have not tried it. Ancient technology is wonderful, but there some areas about which I am very reluctant to experiment. At least, when I have a choice.

When I pick the device up it turns on, courtesy of the ATA gene. So I have to make the choice.

Radek is conscious and weeping from pain: joint pain, muscle pain, intestinal pain. While I am still testing the properties of the plant Teyla brought -- and determining that it is, definitively, the cause of Radek's symptoms -- I simply dare not give him anything stronger than saline.

This tiny machine that I have never used before uses no chemical stimulants or pain relievers. Theoretically, it is perfectly safe. Taking a deep breath, I comb Radek's hair aside with my fingers and draw the prongs against his scalp.

The device adheres. I let go. Radek is completely still for a moment before going slack against the bed. "Does that help any, lad?" I say softly.

He answers at once, and more clearly than he has answered anything so far. "Yes, much better. Give me a moment and I will go back to work."

I smile at the joke and pat his arm.

According to Halling, the treatment the Athosians use for Desperation works sometimes, and sometimes the patient dies of hyponatremia. I'd like to think I can do better, but so far I don't know how. Sidney and Diaz are running tests on Radek's blood. Also his saliva and sweat. I have examined him three times and the preliminary results from the scanner will take me hours to review.

Radek tries to sit up, oblivious to the restraints, monitors and IV. "All right," he sighs. "I'm ready to get back to work."

Surprised, I say carefully, "Radek, you can't leave. You're in the infirmary for a reason." I try to conceal my worry, but I'm getting very nervous. He's been violent before.

"What--why? I'm fine." He finally seems to notice the equipment and restraints. "I just...why am I here?"

"Well. We think you've been-- We think something you ate didn't agree with you."

"Oh. Well. I'll just go home and sleep it off."

"No! Radek!" I catch his shoulder and gently push him back down. "You can't. You've...been acting strangely."

"I have."

"Aye. You've been...singing. And dissembling things. And...."

He closes his eyes. "I did more than that, didn't I?" From his eyelids comes a slow leak of tears. "I killed Rodney. Didn't I?"

"What? No, no. He's fine."

"I killed him."

"No. You hardly even tried! Really. I've never seen so badly botched a murder." I shake his arm and laugh, hoping that he will believe nothing terrible has happened. "He left here hours ago. Jeff stitched up his arm. It was nothing. Wouldn't even count as a bad bar fight in Manchester."

"He's okay?"

"He's fine."

"But I remember...."

"You're very sick, Radek. You're mind's wandering a bit. Rodney's fine."

At last he subsides. Perhaps he finally believes me. I pat his arm.

".... best boss I ever had," he murmurs, which, knowing Rodney, doesn't strike me any odder than attempted murder.

~Rodney McKay, Resident Asshole, Atlantis Project

The water is flat and blue. It stretches out until it disappears with nothing between the flat sea and the sky. There are no waves to speak of today. I know how impossibly fierce that innocent-looking expanse of flat water can be, but just now what tiny ripples there are only make specks of shine as they reflect the setting sun.

I think I can see currents, places where the reflection is a little different. Some of them are smooth and velvety as they ripple, like bad a CGI ocean. Although, if that is what it really looks like, I am judging the computer graphics too harshly.

I don't spend a lot of time looking at the ocean. Even when I'm living in the middle of one.

I've been to my quarters. I went to the lab--not the simulations lab, the mechanics lab. I went to the dining room. I went to the west balcony. Everywhere I went, though, I just think about the infirmary.

Radek is sleeping now, cocooned in wires and tubes. I understand what Carson is doing, but it doesn't make me feel any better. Biology is mainly magic or art. Each new miracle drug fails to work on fifty to ninety percent of the population. And the placebo effect does work more than twenty-five percent of the time. With inconsistency like that you might as well just kill a chicken and pray.

I wish I believed that some god would answer me. But all the really helpful-sounding gods have turned out to be goa'uld and all the saints are just former-human energy beings who don't have any more clue about the meaning of life then they did when they had bodies. As I always suspected, it's all just a stupid, fucked up universe. Only the demons are real.

When I was a project lead at Area 51 I didn't have to worry about any of my people dying. I had dozens of people in Moscow, and I didn't have to worry about any of them either. Well, Dima died. But he had a bad heart and Russian medicine went from bad to worse after the fall of the USSR. When Dima just didn't show up for work one morning because he'd died--it wasn't my responsibility.

Collins was my responsibility. Lindstrom was my responsibility. Singh and Lucci, taken by the Wraith during the siege, were mine. Peter was technical support, not research staff, but he'd been on my team--on my mission--when he was killed. Wagner was one of mine. Gall and Abrams were both mine. And didn't I really *screw* that one up.

My people. I never wanted people. Staff, yes. Minions. Subordinates. But I have no business being responsible for human beings. People are so much more complicated than things. In physics, everything is predictable and coherent--all the way down until you hit the quantum level, anyway. People aren't predictable. Or controllable. Or quantifiable. Frequently, in fact, people are stupid or cruel or both. As bad as biology is, the social sciences are worse: the insane studying the insane. And yet, here I am, responsible for people when I clearly can't take care of them. I can't fix Radek like a naqada generator--

"Rodney, I need to speak to you." It's Cadman. A city the size of Atlantis, what does a man have to do for a little privacy?

"Look," I turn to face her. "Don't take this the wrong way. I appreciate you deeply. Now go away and leave me alone."

To my utter astonishment, she socks me in the head. "Hey!" I yell, although it didn't really hurt. Since we shared my body, she thinks she has the right to violate my boundaries any time she wants.

"I'm in charge of the damn criminal investigation, and if you know anything useful, you're going to tell me."

"And for that you start with the hitting? Wait--criminal investigation?"

"Well, maybe. We don't actually know if there's been a crime."

"Radek--"

"This doesn't strike you as suspicious at all? Now that you think about it? Assuming that you are actually thinking?" She is being cool and sarcastic, but I can tell she is worried. The idea of a murderer in the city worries me, too.

"So go." I say.

"I just told you--"

"Go, go. Ask me questions. No, I didn't see anything suspicious. No, I can't think of anyone who has a motive. What else?"

"We're trying to narrow down the exposure. When did you first start noticing symptoms?"

"This morning, when he tried to kill me. No. Wait. The morning we got back he was making paper airplanes."

"Okay ...."

"Out of real paper. Which we don't have to waste. And they were terrible aerodynamically. Pretty, but useless."

"Right. Okay. And that's unusual? Got it. What else?"

"Nothing else. Well, he disassembled half of the control center, but everybody wants to do that."

"How long has he been seeing Dr. Heightmeyer?"

"I think civilians get some kind of professional confidentiality, even if you military don't," I say stiffly.

"I don't mean seeing as a psychiatrist, I mean seeing romantically."

"He's not. Is he?"

"They were together this morning. She says it was the first time." Cadman sighs. "I was really hoping for a lovers' quarrel or maybe jealousy as a motive."

"There's professional jealousy," I say. "Or ambition."

"Then the target would have been you." Her voice is level, her eyes calm. She's not intimidated by my intelligence. Or envious of it. She doesn't see me as a freak.

When I answer I sound just as calm, although my stomach is rolling: "If this is professional, then the target would have been me. Radek reports directly to me. I think we can agree, nobody would kill to take his place."

She frowns, thinking for a moment. "Okay, yeah. That's too elaborate even for you guys. Does he have any enemies?"

"Well, the *Wraith*." She has strayed into the ridiculous. "What is this, Colombo? He didn't have time for enemies. Nobody in my department does."

"If somebody did this deliberately, presumably they had a reason," she snaps back. "And somebody had the means. Now, what about biologists? The chemists? Do any of the Athosians hate him? Did he snake anybody's lab time? Did he have anything on anybody?"

"I--don't know." We look at each other, acknowledging that this is not the sort of thing I would pay much attention to.

"What about you?"

For just a moment I feel horribly betrayed. How can she think I would do this to one of my people, to one of my friends--

And I really had thought we were friends--

Then I realize that she means, 'who hates me enough to want me dead?' "Just about everybody," I whisper.

She thumps me on the side of the head again. "I'm serious, dammit. Is there anybody who would try to poison you? How often do you eat together? During the last week, where and when did you share food? Do you keep a secret stash he might have raided?"

I tell her where I keep the power bars socked away in case of emergency. "We don't eat together in the mess very often, but ... in the lab, yeah. And we keep a common pot of coffee."

"How spectacular was the crash and burn with Katie?"

"I'm sure you know all the sordid details. Anyway, it wasn't a crash, it was just a ... fizzle. And it was over a couple of months ago."

Her shrug tells me that I've just confirmed what she already knows about it. Sometimes I really, really hate Cadman.

"You know, you aren't being much help," she complains.

"Sorry. I'll try to be a better suspect next time."

When she's gone, I go back to watching the ocean.

The next time I hear a tread behind me, it's even and confident, but not fast. I don't need to turn around to see who it is. Or even take three guesses. "Go away, Colonel.

He doesn't answer immediately, and he doesn't leave. "Should you be way out here alone? Carson just released you."

There are lots of answers to that. It's been longer than five hours since the reaction, so I should be fine. I have my radio if anything were to go wrong. Plus it's practically Grand Central Station out here. I don't feel like explaining what he can easily figure out, though, so I just shrug.

"I've already put you on a stretcher once today, Rodney."

Acidly, I respond, "Sorry for the inconvenience." I really hope I can make him angry enough to go away, because I'm tired of talking right now.

The icy silence behind me shows that I've fallen short of my goal. After a long moment, he says, "I stopped by to give you the latest word on Zelenka, if you're interested, that is."

"If you are going to tell me he's dead, I really don't want to hear it," I say. I know I've gone too far, and I wait for the ax to fall. Possibly not metaphorically.

Instead he comes close up behind me and lays a hand on my shoulder. "He's still hanging in there. Carson has a treatment plan. He's very optimistic--"

"You are a rotten liar," I say.

"Well, then, kind of optimistic."

My eyes burn sharply and a tear slips loose. The ocean is too calm to blame the salt water on spray. John is behind me, though. He won't see it unless I try to wipe it away. His hand is warm and solid on my shoulder. It feels good, but the long silence is awkward. I know I ought to say something, but I'm not actually good at conversation, and there is nothing I want to say.

Well, there is one thing I want to say. Or ought to say, it's not the same thing. "Thank you. For coming today."

"You thought I wouldn't?" he asks.

"Well, it's always been sort of a nightmare of mine. That I'd have a reaction and nobody would come."

Still holding my shoulder, he steps closer, so that my back is brushing against his chest. "Rodney, what have I ever done to make you think I wouldn't come if you needed me? You have always--always--been there when I needed you."

To my utter horror and humiliation, I sob. I cover my mouth, hoping it won't happen again, pretending it didn't happen.

"Look, you realize, don't you, that you didn't drive poor Zelenka crazy?"

"Well, of course not!" But how sure are we about that, really?

"You're difficult to work for--"

"Gee, thanks."

"In fact, you're a real pain in the ass."

"Wow, that's really *honest* of you." It sounds like a good defense, but if he stays around much longer he will see me burst into tears.

"But you did not drive Dr. Zelenka to homicide."

I take a deep breath and force myself to step away. Or try to. John won't let go.

"Listen, Zelenka needs you. He's semi-conscious. Not completely alert, but apparently, he thinks he killed you. Carson says it would help if you dropped by and showed him you were all right."

"Yeah, right. Learning he hasn't killed me is going to make him feel *better*. I'm the guy who sucks all the joy out of his life, remember?"

John yanks me around. Not gently. "Don't be an ass about this. You know he does not really think that."

"Do you really think I'm so obtuse that I haven't noticed that I'm not exactly lovable, Colonel?" I snap. "Really, it's not a surprise. So if you'll excuse me--" I try to turn away, but John hauls me back. He's strong and much better balanced than I am. I wind up standing, trapped in his arms, about half a foot from his face.

He looks down at me, wrestling with his temper. I don't think he'll hit me, but right now I wouldn't much care if he did. "You feel like shit," he says. "I get that. But I really don't have any more time to spend on this. Believe me, if I did, I'd spend all day on your ego. But Zelenka could use some reassurance now, not later when you get over yourself."

There's more he wants to say, more that he will say, if I try to talk over him, but he pauses to take a breath, and apparently to give me a chance to change my mind.

I am very tired. My throat hurts. My *heart* hurts. John is wrong, but I cannot bear to fight with my friends any more today.

I shrug in defeat, and lead the way to the transporter.

 

~John Shepard, United States Air Force

"So what have we got?" Elizabeth asks.

"So far, nothing," I sigh. "I'm beginning to agree with Rodney: biology is voodoo. We have somebody poisoned and no poison to be found. It's hocus-pocus."

"Now, now. From what I know of the scientific method, you have to finish collecting all the data before you form your conclusion. We may still find something."

"Do you think we will?" I ask.

She frowns. It's the frown I really don't like. "No, I don't. John, we have to consider the possibility that--"

"No, we don't. You've seen Zelenka. Nobody would who was trying to kill themselves would use a method that painful or that took this long. And certainly not when there were a hundred easier ways to do it. Even if his psych eval hinted that he might be inclined to do that--not this way."

"No. You're right. Of course, you're right. So how much of the food have we cleared as edible?"

"We tested leftovers first. All of that came out clean. I had Bates inspecting MREs. They're all still sealed up tight. The fruit and carrot cake we got on Uit is fine."

"Carrot cake?"

"The purple bread. I assume we'll have it for breakfast, since all Paduan granola-substitute hasn't been tested yet."

"Damn. The granola was kind of growing on me." She smiles briefly. Or grimaces. It's one of those moments when our problems seem so impossible and our lives so surprising it's hard to know what to do or say about it. "Colonel, I recommend we keep biosciences and security at condition two and send the first team to get some sleep."

She's right. There's no point keeping the physical and social science people on double shifts, not when we have food that's secure to eat, no identifiable threat, and nothing for them to do. "You've got it."

"That includes you, Colonel."

"I'm fine," I say, because I'm supposed to.

"How's Rodney? He probably shouldn't be running around unsupervised right now."

"He isn't. I took him to the infirmary to see Radek."

"Ah, good. Maybe you should head back there and rescue Carson, in that case." She is looking at me calmly. There is no message in her eyes. Probably, she doesn't know how kind she is being right now. Most likely, she has just noticed that Rodney does much better when someone takes control of the situations he can't.

"Thanks," I say. She nods, dismissing me. There is still no message in her eyes.

 

~Rodney McKay

I'm in the doorway to the alcove where Radek is installed. Carson is with him, lightly running his hands over monitors both Terran and Ancient. He looks pleased. That might be a good sign, but I don't ask him any questions as he leaves because if things aren't going well, I don't want to know.

I stand just outside the doorway, staring. When Radek turns his head and looks at me, I nearly jump out of my skin.

"Rodney," he whispers. I can't hear him, actually, but I can see the shape of the word.

Oh, god. "Should I--should I get the doctor?"

"I had the strangest dream," his voice is a little louder. Unwillingly, I step across the threshold. I don't want to talk to him, not ever again, but if he wants to talk to me, I will accept my penance. I ruined his life. He loved his work and I broke his heart. I swallow and steel myself. "I dreamed I killed you. Actually, I was not very good at it."

"Anywhere you want," I say, and my voice doesn't break. "Area 51. With my recommendation behind you, they'll give you any project you want. Or the new space station. Or MIT."

He looks at me almost shrewdly. With growing dread, I realize that he isn't nearly as out of it as I'd been hoping. He remembers everything. He understands. "The Pentagon," I begin, willing to offer him anything.

He talks over me. "I started out working for a university. Nice place. Huge budget. The division chair was an idiot, of course. Somebody who actually liked science wouldn't volunteer for all that paper work. But he didn't want the rest of us to show him up so that people would know he was an idiot. And he liked having us beg for money more than he liked spending his lovely budget. It was hell. One Sunday night, as I was getting ready for bed, I realized that killing myself sounded like more fun than getting up in the morning and going to work. So I quit."

He looks at me, to see if I am listening. I already know his resume, but I nod. I'll listen to whatever he as to say, I owe him that much.

"I spent the next three years in the private sector. R&D. Again, huge budget, but this time my boss was a very nice man. Friendly. Polite. He didn't micromanage or nitpick." Here, Radek frowns, "He was a vice president in marketing. Marketing. He had no idea what we were doing. Did not care. How and why wasn't important, only result and cost-benefit analysis. Once I spent three hours describing the most beautiful concept--application for carbon microfibers. Marvelous. He said, 'That's very nice, Radek.' Very nice! As though I was offering him a recipe for soup."

"We'll, we'll find something," I say, almost pleading. The only alternative to him leaving is me leaving. The thought makes me sick. To leave the city, to leave John--How am I going to do it?

"And then I met you. And you were an obnoxious pain in the ass. Impatient. Disrespectful. Could not even be bothered to learn my name. Complete bastard. But you understood everything important." He looks at me hard, as though he has said something earthshaking, but I can only stare in bewilderment. "I don't have to explain every little thing I do for two hours, with cute little pictures and diagrams and all the hard parts taken out of the math and still have you walk away looking bored. When I am frustrated or stuck, you know why. You see it. Just walk up and look and poof! Right there you are with me. Half the time you solve the problem with even thinking. And when I am excited--right there you are, too. Celebrating with me. You see the wonder of it all so quickly ... getting the jokes that other people don't even know are funny. The Atlantis team...they are wonderful. But you are best of all. You live in my universe. You see the same world I see. "

He closes his eyes. I sway back, leaning against the wall. I can see now that the whole thing with the knife and the gun and anaphylactic shock was just a symptom of insanity. He was as out of his head then as he is right now. It should be a relief, I should feel better, knowing how disconnected from reality he is and has been, but I only feel cold and sick.

"I would write these papers--beautiful, brilliant. I never had friends who would read them. Colleagues, yes, but not friends. It was a competitive field, at home. You are competitive too, but you never lose, so you are never bitter. Arrogant and unkind, yes, sure, but bitter and jealous is much, much worse. And I tried to kill you."

"You-you weren't very good at it," I whisper.

"Always with the criticism...."

He doesn't speak again and I don't dare. I really, really wish humans were like gravity. Or acceleration. Or mass-energy conversions.

From the corner of my eye, I see Colonel Sheppard slip into the alcove. I straighten and square my shoulders. "How's he doing?" he asks softly.

"He woke up a little while ago. He may or may not have been lucid. Probably not."

"Beckett's in a better mood. Things might be looking up. Listen, visiting hours are over. How about we let these nice people get on with their work."

"I'll stay out of the way," I begin, but suddenly he steps closer, taking my hand.

"You're shaking? You're shaking. What's wrong, Rodney?"

"Nothing. I. I didn't finish lunch. I'm just hungry."

"All right. We'll go to the mess and see if any of the food has been decreed safe yet. Or there's always MREs."

He starts to lead me toward the door. I pull back. "No-I-"

"I'll make it an order."

"We're not off planet, Colonel."

"Rodney," he says very softly, "quit being an idiot and get something to eat before you pass out."

"I'm fine."

Suddenly, real anger flares in his eyes. He hasn't been this pissed since I accidentally took out most of the solar system he was in. "What is it going to take for you to give me a break? Really. What is it going to take?"

Dumbfounded, I stare at him. I have no idea what he's talking about or why he's angry. Or why, if he's angry, he's hanging around arguing instead of just walking away.

I'm saved from the rest of this argument that I'm completely not equipped for by Carson, who materializes silently from thin air beside me and says. "Get out. Both of you now. If I see either of you again and you're not on a stretcher, you soon will be."

Chastened, we flee.

 

~John Sheppard

Rodney walks just a head of me, not looking back, not slowing. I follow, thinking, couldn't it, just once, be easy with you? But I know I don't really want it to be easy. Rodney is difficult and complicated and fast. No one has ever asked as much from me as he does. No one has ever been this kind of challenge. No one has ever been such a trial to my patience, my intelligence, my view of the universe ... and he is one of the reasons why I have never been as happy, generally speaking, as I am right now.

He stops dead in the corridor and turns around. "Major--" a mistake he hasn't made in weeks. "Colonel. You know I--" He can't finish. He is holding so still because he doesn't even dare breathe, he is so close to tears. I wait, pretending I don't notice. He swallows hard and looks away.

I can't take him to the mess hall like this. I grip his upper arm and prod him toward the nearest transporter. I have a powerbar in my pocket. It doesn't really count as food, but it's better than nothing. I open it and hand it over. "Eat," I say.

"The peanut butter ones are nasty," he says, but the grumble is half-hearted, so I am not reassured.

"Eat all of it." I push him into the transporter and pick a destination. One of the upper towers, high and far away. Close to a balcony. Somewhere quiet, where I can give him a few minutes to digest the power bar and calm down. The only really bad part of Rodney not being easy is that every once in a while he makes it impossible for anyone to help him.

We walk out to one of the decorative balconies a couple of hundred feet above the ocean. It's dark and cool and quiet up here. Rodney crumbles up the powerbar wrapper and stuffs it into his pocket before leaning back against the wall and folding his arms.

My communicator beeps. It's Bates. "Life sciences just came back with the results of the next batch of tests, sir. The Paduan granola is clean."

I sigh. I would really have liked an easy answer here. Trace amounts of something toxic in a dish nobody but Zelenka actually liked, for example, would have improved things hugely. But no. This looks less and less like an accident. "Okay. Tell the cook to put the tested food back into circulation, and have the lab guys continue the testing."

Then I check in with Cadman (nothing incriminating on the investigation end) and Elizabeth (Teyla and Ronon are still searching for some trace of the toxic plant on Uit, and she's pleased to get the good word on the granola) and the infirmary ("you just left here. What, exactly, do you think has changed?").

I have no one left to call. I've given Rodney all the privacy I can without actually leaving him alone. I take out my other powerbar and hand it over. "Not hungry," he says.

"We've already had to take you to the infirmary once this week. Eat."

"Gee, I'm so sorry my anaphylaxis inconvenienced you." He glances at me nervously and looks away. I hold out the powerbar until he takes it. "I'm sorry," he breathes.

I sigh. "Look, you really do realize, don't you, that you didn't drive poor Zelenka crazy?"

"Actually, I know that. I know that. Do you know what he said to me just before you came in? He said I--he said--he s-said ... so you can see he's completely out of touch with anything approaching reality. So everything's cool. Dr. Beckett will fix him--

"I heard what he said to you."

"--and everything will get back to normal."

"It actually sounded pretty reasonable to me."

"And we can all forget this entire embarrassing nightmare. What did you say?"

"I said it sounded perfectly reasonable to me. I can see where he's coming from with that."

"Look. Colonel. John. You're being very, very kind. And I can't tell you how much I appreciate that."

"Really?" I tease gently, trying to connect with the quick mind I have grown to love, "Usually you're a pretty articulate guy. Are you feeling all right? Some of the regular food is cleared. We can go get more to eat."

He ignores my attempt at levity. "John, it's not exactly a surprise. Not really. I know what I am. It's not like I'm--good with people. I never was. This isn't news, and I can handle it. It's not the point anyway. Is it? I mean I'm not here to be--"

I find myself wanting to hit him. He's being so ... *stupid*. He can be so beautifully quick and bright, but he's hiding from himself so hard--he's so afraid--that he's not even trying to think. He's convinced himself he's fooled everyone. He's sure he's got us all figured out and he's written us off, and he could be so--so--much better if he would just try.

"Oh, that's right," I taunt, and I am not irritated or impatient, I am angry. "There's no point in pretending you actually have any friends because you're completely unlovable. In fact, the only reason no one's gutted you and tossed you into the ocean for the squid is that you're so irreplaceable that we'd all be dead without you in a week."

"All right," he says quietly, rallying a little. "I guess I deserved that. I'm being an ass about this. It isn't about me. It's about Radek. I'll ... get over myself."

"You're not fooling anyone, Rodney. That little game you play where you push people away before they can reject you--everybody sees through it: me, Elizabeth, Carson ... Dr. Zelenka's a pretty bright guy. I am willing to bet he had you figured out from the get-go."

"All right. You win," he whispers.

I cannot leave it there. A part of me is a little giddy; I am challenging him. Right at this moment he is working about as hard as he's ever worked in his life, and I'm the one who's brought him to it. "I admit, it's not always loads of fun. The ego and the self-centeredness and the continual criticism gets a little old after a while. And you never--never--seem to cut me a break when I am trying to help you. But okay. I can live with that. I'm getting better at it and at least you're never boring. But what really pisses me off is that you still haven't figured out that it isn't necessary. We know what we owe you and we know how much we need you, and guess what? In the end, how valuable your brain is isn't even the most important thing."

He doesn't answer. He stands unmoving in the darkness not three feet from me.

"It's really disappointing, how stupid you're being, with all this bullshit about how you're unlovable and so unbearable that the only reason we put up with you is your brain. I love you. I do."

"I--I didn't--"

"Don't you tell me you didn't know that. Don't you dare be so afraid that you pretend you are that stupid."

"It's not that easy--" he protests, but I know, in that moment, that I've won.

"Easy? What do you care about easy? You've done the impossible a dozen times in the last year. You don't need easy."

For a long time he is silent. He turns away, looking out over the dark span of ocean. "I want it so badly."

"You've got it," I whisper. "And you can handle it."

"He said ... I was ruining his life!" and now Rodney is crying.

Carefully, slowly, I lay a hand on his shoulder. Comforting him is almost always a bad idea, but then, I have never tried to comfort him like this. I pull him into my arms. "He was angry and crazy. He didn't mean it. I've been angry at you, too. Hell, I am angry at you frequently. That doesn't mean I don't love you."

He shakes in my arms.

I hold him tightly and say, "It's true. You know it's true. You are exactly what I needed."

"You can't do this ... your career--"

I laugh. "Yeah, right. By the time anybody notices us, the world will have found out about Atlantis. And the Wraith. And the Goa'uld. They'll have plenty of people to hate and be afraid of. Nobody's going to care about queers."

"I love you, too," he whispers. "You're everything I thought I'd never have."

I hold him until he calms. Really, this is much better than yelling at him. When he's past the worst of his misery, I shift him against the wall and tug his hand down until we are both sitting on the broad deck. Holding hands. Calm.

"What I was saying before. I can see what Zelenka meant," I say. "About having someone who sees the universe the same way he does. I've never ... had any friends who thought being smart was cool. The math-thing--that was always--it was something I never shared with anybody. Nobody got it. It was personal and mine and I never even thought about it, except now I'm here and suddenly there are people who see the same," I pause, not sure how to put it into words. I hadn't felt lonely. I'd never felt weird or out of place with the math thing, it was just something that never had to do with other people. "I know I'm not in your class or his, but when I'm doing stuff with numbers, you get it."

"It was the math thing that did it for me," Rodney says softly. "That damn puzzle. I could overlook everything else--"

"Everything else?"

"You being perfect in nearly every respect."

"Oh. Right."

"But I fell hard for you then."

"Really?" I say. "I never would have guessed."

Rodney sighs. "Oh, shut up," he says, and kisses me.

 

~End

**Author's Note:**

> Imported from Area52.


End file.
